Silent Echo (3 page)

The nurse smiled back and Portia noticed, not for the first time, what an attractive woman Ms. Leucosia was. Her ivory complexion was the perfect canvas for her scattered freckles and glossy red curls, which she always wore with two braids pinned back on either side. The style really highlighted her eyes, which were a green that was caught somewhere between a Granny Smith apple and the needles of a spruce tree.

“Felix explained what he could to me, but can you tell me what exactly you were feeling?”

Eager to get back to class, Portia tried to minimize the attack.

“I was feeling a little off this morning, and then at lunch I just suddenly felt so tired—”

“Tired would not cause throat constriction, my dear. Is it possible you were, um, nervous about something? Panic attacks in girls your age are actually more common than you would think.”

Portia began to rise up off the gurney. If she hurried, she could still make it to her Lyrical Poetry elective on time. Besides, Ms. Leucosia was right. It was probably just a panic attack. After the solitude of summer break, she was probably more nervous than she realized to get back into the swing of things.

“Yes, panic sounds right,” she offered the nurse.

Ms. Leucosia flashed her a brilliant smile.

“OK, dear. You may go.” She handed over the admission slip and Portia opened the door to make a quick exit.

“Oh, and Portia,” the nurse said, her voice smooth as melted butter.

Portia turned back and was once again startled by the intensity in Ms. Leucosia’s grassy eyes, the way her thick lashes grazed at her cheekbones.

“I’ll always be here for
you
…”

The door to the office closed just in time for the bell to signal the beginning of the next period.

When Portia left the nurse’s office, Ms. Leucosia’s strange parting words had her feeling agitated.

It wasn’t as if she made a habit of frequently visiting the nurse. She knew that some girls were regulars, always looking to be excused from gym or a pop quiz, relying on their “monthly visitors” as the perfect scapegoat. But Portia actually enjoyed most of her classes. Even gym.

Was Ms. Leucosia implying that Portia’s handicap would necessitate more visits? Portia had never once taken advantage of her condition, and she was angered by the insinuation.

It was more, though, than what the nurse had said that had her feeling unnerved. She couldn’t remember telling Ms. Leucosia that she was having pains in her back. Had she rubbed at it in her sleep? And the dream? That twisted dream that still had her skin crawling? It had been so ludicrous, yet had felt so real.

The last one to enter the classroom, Portia stopped dead in her tracks when suddenly the words of the giant bird’s song came back to her with perfect clarity.

“Beside the bones upon the hill,

We sat to view our latest kill.

And soon you, too, will know the thrill,

The evil from your mouth shall spill…”

The words were chilling, nonsensical. She tried to put them out of her aching head so that she could focus on the Lyrical Poetry elective in which she had been lucky enough to land a spot. But, much as she tried to forget, the twisted poetry of her dream hovered like a ghost in the attic of Portia’s confused mind.

♪

Mr. Rathi was that one teacher that every student hoped to have. Well, at least Portia thought so. Felix had actually made fun of how worked up she was about getting into his class, but Rathi was known to be an amazing lecturer, and considering her unconditional love of music, Portia would have been incredibly disappointed if she didn’t get in. Since she placed, she had been looking forward to this class and was determined to shake free the stress of her day.

Passing around a paper to each of the students, the teacher called the class to attention. When she looked at the handout, Portia was surprised to see the lyrics to a song she had never heard of. “Every Note Played” by Derek Delacroix. She scanned her mental musical library, knowing that she had definitely heard of the artist but wasn’t actually familiar with his work. Psyched that she had a few iTunes gift cards stored up, she decided she’d download all of his albums when she got home. If Rathi felt the guy was worth opening up his class with, then he must really be good.

“And so, my friends,” the teacher began, “as we embark on our journey into the land of lyrical poetry, I thought we would begin with a premiere musical poet, Mr. Derek Delacroix. Some of you might not be familiar with Delacroix’s work, but I trust that you will come to admire his genius, as I do. Please listen closely as I play this song in its entirety for you. When it’s over I’d like to hear your initial thoughts, and then we will analyze the verses more closely. Why don’t you all close your eyes…”

Portia closed her eyes as Delacroix’s croaky voice filled the room, exuding confidence though many of the notes stretched slightly beyond his vocal reach.

In every note played,

Beds by lovers unmade,

Flowers growing from graves,

It all leaves us dismayed…

We end with a curve,

The question mark is preserved,

So ask as you might,

But it ain’t worth the fight…

The song journeyed on until its final refrain:

It’s all in the notes, friend,

Each question, each end.

And that’s why we play,

So the notes float away…

She reluctantly opened her eyes when the song ended and quickly typed out a few knee-jerk reactions on her laptop, raising her hand enthusiastically.

“Ah, Miss Griffin. Let’s have a look.” Mr. Rathi took the computer and perched himself on her desk.

“The language is so simple—which I think must be why the song is able to really have its own voice. But even though it’s simple, it still makes you want to go back and read the verses again. It’s like you know that the lyrics are layered and that even though this guy’s voice isn’t exactly beautiful, his singing is.”

Mr. Rathi handed the laptop back to her.

“Excellent, Miss Griffin. Indeed that is the beauty of Delacroix. His ability to take simple language and imagery and infuse it with emotion and rhetoric…”

A few more hands shot up in the air.

“…It’s cool that the singer doesn’t talk only about himself. So many of today’s lyrics are in the first person. You know, like ‘me and shorty on the dance floor’ kind of stuff…”

A few more thoughts flew around the room, drawing the class further into the discussion.

“OK, now let’s start to examine some of the verses more closely…”

“…And every note played,

Fires like a grenade,

Shards all around,

Questions profound…”

“…There are questions everywhere. Everything holds its own mystery. It’s all around us. We just have to seek out the questions and then decide whether or not they are worth answering.”

Portia heard a snicker from behind. She glanced behind her and was caught off guard by the oaky eyes of a boy she’d never seen before.

She held his gaze for an uncomfortable moment and then turned her attention back to the classroom discussion.

She could sense that he was still staring at her and it was very unsettling. Something about his gaze had been accusing, dismissive. His look held an arrogance that made her feel like the class’s thoughts on the Delacroix song were banal and trite.

Who the hell made him the authority on Derek Delacroix
?

“Questions all the same

In this musical game…”

“…We are all faced with the same questions all the time. Even if we like different music or come from different backgrounds, we all have to face the same questions about our humanity…”

Portia wanted to turn back around and take in his face once again, but she resisted.

“…But the melody speaks true,

Holds answers for me and for you…”

“…But if you listen to the music and just kind of get lost in it, then you can find all of the answers. All the answers we need are right at our fingertips—you know, all around us in music and in everything…”

“You think so? Do you really think that all of the answers to our questions are at our bloody fingertips?!”A silence fell over the classroom as everybody, including Portia, turned back to look at the new student. “I can assure you—they’re not. There are no answers. Only more questions, no matter what kind of notes you’re playing or music you’re listening to. The only song is one that keeps asking questions.” He lowered his voice a bit, but it didn’t detract from the impact of his words.

Mr. Rathi cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, um, students, let us welcome a new pupil at RPA, Mr. Maxwell Hunter—”

“Just Max will do fine, thanks.” His tone was already softening. In fact, Portia noticed, his voice was actually quite lovely—a block of milk chocolate wrapped in sandpaper. Was she imagining that it held traces of a British accent?

“I think what Mr. Hunter is trying to say, albeit somewhat overzealously, is that the answers are always
just beyond
our grip. Perhaps that is why Delacroix ends by saying that that’s why he plays—to make the notes float away. Perhaps he knows that some answers to life’s mysteries are beyond our grasp, so we’re better off not agonizing over them. The only constant we can ever count on in the melody of life is that there will always be questions…”

The teacher’s words drifted off as Portia held Max’s gaze. His glare drove straight into her, bypassing the guards who usually stood sentry to her vulnerability.

She turned back around and nervously typed out a new message. When he saw her hand raised, Mr. Rathi navigated his way back over to her desk, accepting the laptop once again.

“I don’t think Delacroix was saying that the answers are always beyond our reach. I think it’s that he’s talking about a specific kind of question. You know, the questions that make us examine who we are as people—moral questions. I mean, I’m sure even Delacroix would agree, we all would agree, that there are questions out there with obvious answers. Maybe we try to make them float away because they are just too painful to ask. You know, because we live in such an imperfect world…”

While Mr. Rathi was reading Portia’s words, she turned back to give Max a pointed look. His eyes, which held the same amber fluidity as the single malt scotch her father often enjoyed, remained stormy.

They were an odd accessory to the unexpected grin that erupted on his face.

♪

Portia couldn’t focus on anything else for the rest of the class.

Something about Max Hunter was so disconcerting. His comments had been well stated and certainly proved his confidence, not to mention his blatant disregard for what anyone might think of him. But while solid oratorical skills were always a major draw for her, she had to admit that his extreme good looks also had her a bit hot and bothered. She wanted to turn around again but instead had to rely on her memory to conjure his image. Not a problem. In fact, she was certain that if she never saw him again, she would still remember that face, the eyes, the cowlick that fell stubbornly onto his forehead. Still, there were things she had not had enough time to glean. Did his cheeks share the same dimples as his chin? What about his hands? Were they sturdy? Graceful?

A warmth began to flow through her body. It wasn’t the same as the heat that had assaulted her earlier in the day. More like the radiating comfort of a crackling fire on a cold, wet day.

She couldn’t handle the tension that was assaulting her from the back of the room and kept checking the time on her laptop, waiting for the bell to ring. When Mr. Rathi finally dismissed the class, she gathered her stuff and bolted for the door, finding Felix waiting for her right outside.

“How are you feeling? What did Ms. Leucosia say?” he asked her before she even made it out into the hall.

She glanced back into the classroom and saw Mr. Rathi pulling Max Hunter aside. The teacher placed a sympathetic hand on the boy’s shoulder. Max responded with a sheepish grin.

It appeared that his cheeks were in fact dimpled.

“Better…definitely better,” she signed distractedly to Felix.

Max exited the classroom, walking past Felix and Portia, nodding a quick acknowledgement her way.

As he walked out of sight, Portia saw him secure a pair of ear buds into his ears and adjust his iPod. She wondered what he was listening to.

Something told her it was definitely not Derek Delacroix.

♪

As the day wore on, Portia tried to focus on all of her new classes, but her mind kept flashing its official new screensaver—the magnificent face of Max Hunter.

At the beginning of each class, she surveyed the room to see if he was there. A part of her was relieved when he wasn’t, but another part of her felt an unabashed desire to see him again.

She was about to accept that she would have to wait until Mr. Rathi’s next class when suddenly he walked into AP French. Something about his gait was noncommittal—as if he was present, but a part of him was elsewhere. Once again he had Portia’s full attention as he offered the teacher a flawless, “Bonjour, Je suis Max Hunter…”

Seated in the back row, a spot she always reserved for foreign language classes in an effort to divert attention from her inability to execute the spoken word, Portia squirmed in her seat. Max caught her eye and motioned to the empty seat beside her. Her heart pounded as she indicated that it was as yet unoccupied.

“Hey,” he offered as he stuffed his long legs into the cramped space under the desk.

Portia nodded in response, strategizing in her head what the best approach would be to explain her handicap to him.

“Portia, right? Griffin, I think I heard someone say? I really enjoyed your comments in Rathi’s class today. I’m sorry if I came off a little harsh. You know—cross to bear and all that…”

There was that disarming smile again.

Portia always hated this part. The explaining. In her iPhone notes she had a typed explanation of her handicap and was about to pull it up when he handed her his own phone, setting it to text mode.

How did he know? Had he been asking about her?

No, stupid, he saw you use your laptop in Rathi’s class.
That was pretty much a dead giveaway. Pull yourself together!

She couldn’t believe that this guy had reduced her to such silly schoolgirl mode after only one encounter.

“Nice to meet you, Max,” she typed and then, before she could stop herself, added, “I think.” She handed the phone to him with a smile that she hoped he would read as flirtatious.

Reign it in, Portia! You’ve known the guy for like less than five minutes!

But since their earlier meeting, she felt like she had been perched at the top of a roller coaster, knowing that the thrill of the ride was only a moment away. And now that he was here again, she felt that speedy downhill rush. And it didn’t disappoint.

His lips curled toward a smile, a hint of mischief in his eyes. She noticed that he had the ability to flex just one of his dimples while the other remained dormant.

“Oh, come on, I’m not so bad. I actually felt like we had a connection in class earlier today.”

“Is that what you would call it?” she typed out. “I would have gone with ‘intellectual ambush.’ ”

Max read her response. A darkness veiled his face, adding another dimension to his beauty.

“I’m sorry, Portia Griffin. I guess some things still set me off.”

“Like Derek Delacroix?” she wrote.

“Yeah, like Delacroix…” he offered. He parted his lips as if to say something else but then thought the better of it. Instead he ran his hands through his mess of hair, a mild look of frustration settling upon his flawless face while he opened his notebook.